


This Thing We Do

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Smut, Sort Of, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: When Crowley drops Aziraphale off at his bookshop after a silent and awkward ride from the demolished church, it doesn’t take much to convince Crowley to come inside.





	This Thing We Do

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write porn so i started a succubus!crowley fic which somehow turned into a romcom so i wrote this instead! enjoy!
> 
> cw: off screen drunk sex

It’s something they do when they come together. After too much wine or mead they fall into bed, a tangle of limbs, moaning into each other’s mouths as they bring each other off. Crowley has no idea who initiates it but it happens. Not always but enough to be more than a one off. Enough for Crowley to thrill with nerves whenever Aziraphale invites him back to whatever place he’s currently staying at. Just for a nightcap he usually says. 

Crowley doesn’t know why Aziraphale goes in for it. Maybe boredom. Maybe more of that pursuit of earthly pleasures he’s gotten so fond of. Crowley usually doesn’t think on it very long because when he does it makes his heart hurt and he doesn’t need any of that.

So when Crowley drops Aziraphale off at his bookshop after a silent and awkward ride from the demolished church, it doesn’t take much to convince Crowley to come inside. That nightcap, you see.

“I never pegged you for a double agent,” Crowley says from an awful floral patterned chair in the back of Aziraphale’s shop. He’s shrugged off his black jacket and it’s hanging somewhere, forgotten. He catches Aziraphale looking at the sliver of skin exposed at the base of his neck. Crowley remembers how much Aziraphale had enjoyed that era of clothes with clavicles all on display. Humans had gotten rather buttoned up after that and so much as a flash of skin was shocking. Crowley subtly undoes another button. Who is he to deny Aziraphale a show? And if the amount of wine Aziraphale is pouring is any indication, he thinks this might just be foreplay. 

Aziraphale clears his throat and focuses on the steady pour of the wine into the two glasses. “I’m rubbish at this spy business. I prefer more straightforward work.”

“Don’t we all,” Crowley says, stretching out his legs in front of him and tossing his arms over the back of the chair. He feels tight about the hips, less languid than normal. It was all the power he’d used at the church, it made his human form uncomfortable. If he were alone he’d be coiled in bed, sleeping until he felt better. But this is much more interesting and Crowley can put up with being uncomfortable for a little extra time with Aziraphale. 

“Please,” Aziraphale says, scoffing. He hands Crowley one of the very full cups and retreats to his own chair. “You’ve never met a convoluted plan you didn’t love.”

“Perhaps I’m just more complex than you.” Crowley stares into the dark wine in his cup thinking about how it will taste on Aziraphale’s tongue when they inevitably come together in an hour or so. It’ll be hot and slick and darkly sweet. He wonders what Aziraphale would do if he put aside their unspoken tradition and kissed him right then and there. 

When he looks back up he sees Aziraphale staring at him like he’s grown a second head. He raises one eyebrow in question and Aziraphale coughs, eyes darting away.

“I don’t know if I should be insulted,” Aziraphale says, returning to the thread of their conversation. His lips are just that shade of pink they get after the first sips of wine.

“As if I’d compliment you,” Crowley scoffs and they both know its a lie but this is part of their relationship, part of the fun of it. And maybe Crowley should hold back on the good natured insults because they haven’t seen each other in nearly a century and the last time they spoke Aziraphale stormed off, but Crowley missed him and he missed this. 

“You wouldn’t, would you,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully before taking another gulp of wine. 

Crowley suddenly can’t stand it anymore, this half explained flirtation. He puts aside his glass and stands, plucking Aziraphale’s cup from his hand and setting aside as well.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale says warily, but Crowley doesn’t answer, climbing onto the chair and straddling Aziraphale before slotting their mouths together, a slick heat.

Aziraphale does taste like wine, and somehow like cherries as Crowley tips his head back with a hand on his jaw, sliding his tongue along Aziraphale’s and feeling his own toes curl.

“Crowley we can’t,” Aziraphale says against his mouth, making no move to push him away.

“What’s so different about this than what we normally do?” Crowley says, pressing kisses down his jaw and pausing his fingers on the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. He’ll wait. He’s not the most patient being on planet earth but he knows better than to push on something like this.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps, tilting his head to give Crowley better access to that delicious patch of skin over his pulse that makes him whimper when Crowley bites down on it. “Why are you so bloody tempting?”

“In the job description, sweetheart,” Crowley says as he grinds down into Aziraphale lap. The angel’s hard and Crowley can feel it.

And Crowley’s still waiting for a yes, the proverbial go ahead from Aziraphale who doesn’t have the wine as an excuse and who, when clear headed, seems to have some fear associated with their liaisons. Crowley supposes Aziraphale has more to risk than Crowley. If Hell found out he shagged an angel he’d probably get a commendation.

Instead of the murmured acquiescence that Crowley expected, he feels himself lifted up as Aziraphale stands and Crowley’s forced to clutch around him. He forgets sometimes how strong Aziraphale is, principality and all, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget again when Aziraphale drops him down onto the sofa in the corner and crawls over him, hands already tugging Crowley’s shirt from his waistband and then slipping under his braces to slide them off his shoulders. “Is this what you wanted?” Aziraphale says, palm a hot brand on Crowley’s stomach where he’s managed to work it up under his undershirt.

“Is it what you want?” Crowley chokes out.

“You cannot imagine,” Aziraphale says and Crowley really doesn’t know what that means but if Aziraphale’s going to keep rutting against his thigh in slow circles he doesn’t think he’s going to care or even think about it too hard because…

Shoving his hands between them, Crowley manages to undo the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat even though his hands are shaking. They never shake normally but Crowley supposes he doesn’t have any alcohol to soothe his nerves. “Please...bow tie.”

Aziraphale looks confused for a moment before sitting back and tugging off the garment which allows Crowley to undo the rest of his shirt. It’s been over a hundred years since Crowley’s been able to see Aziraphale like this, the pale gold hue of his skin, the dusky hair brushed over the hollow of his chest, the swell of his belly. He groans low in his throat and Aziraphale seems unwilling to let him pause too long because his hands are undoing Crowley’s trousers before Crowley can do any one of the hundred things he’s imagining—dumping Aziraphale onto his back and making him come down his throat, mouthing over his nipples until Aziraphale is a mewling mess.

“I want to taste you,” Aziraphale says. “I can’t—I don't remember how you taste.”

Aziraphale slips off the couch, tugging on Crowley’s hips until Crowley sits up and Aziraphale can settle between his knees, pulling out Crowley’s cock without so much as a by your leave and sinking his mouth down onto it until he chokes. Crowley slams back into the couch cushions as his spine arches. He does his best to keep his hips still but he thinks he's failing because it feels so good to scrape his cock over the roof of Aziraphale’s mouth and feel the shallow prick of his teeth.

Aziraphale’s eyelashes are fluttering as he licks over Crowley’s length, slow, steady and hot, and Crowley loses control of his words. He sinks his hands into Aziraphale’s hair. “You’re so gorgeous like this. All the time but like this…”

Aziraphale hollows his cheeks and Crowley keens, unable to keep his eyes open no matter how much he wants to.

Pulling back, Aziraphale wraps a hand around the base of Crowley’s cock and sucks on the head. It’s too much, too much and Crowley manages a spluttered warning which Aziraphale ignores, continuing to move his hand as he swallows.

Crowley gasps through his orgasm, feeling Aziraphale run his hands over Crowley’s thighs in a soothing gesture. It’s affectionate enough that it makes Crowley’s throat feel tight. 

The sex is always good and when Crowley’s drunk he can forget that he wants more than just the sex. He wants to say things like ‘I love you’ and ‘you’re it for me,’ but he can’t say those things because Aziraphale doesn’t feel them and Crowley _ knows _ and he can’t bear to hear Aziraphale tell him that.

When Crowley opens his eyes again and looks down at Aziraphale where he’s still kneeling between his thighs, the angel smiles at him and hefts himself up to sit next to Crowley on the couch. They’re barely touching now and it makes Crowley ache.

He reaches out to trace the curve of Aziraphale’s stomach, moving his hand down to—

Aziraphale grasps his fingers. “Not tonight. This was about you really. Consider it a thank you.”

Crowley thinks it would have hurt less if Aziraphale had slapped him in the face and gotten it over with.

“Well, thanks then,” he drawls as he pulls away, tucking himself back into his pants. He stands and begins the process of putting his clothes back in order. He feels a tug on his elbow, making him turn back and see Aziraphale looking somehow more heartbroken than Crowley feels.

“Are you leaving?”

“Well now that you’ve _ thanked _ me, I suppose I can go on my way,” he snaps.

“Come here,” Aziraphale says, tugging on his arm. Crowley digs in his heels and Aziraphale gives him a pleading look. “Please?”

Crowley sighs and sits back down, letting Aziraphale arrange him until Crowley’s head is in his lap and Crowley has kicked his feet over the arm of the couch. They don’t do this, Crowley realizes. It’s always sex. Not affection.

Aziraphale runs a hand over Crowley’s slicked back hair, carefully working his fingers through the product. It’s going to be a mess, but Crowley doesn’t think he minds.

“Thank you for helping me,” Aziraphale says and Crowley has to stop himself from tensing. “And for my books. They’re very precious to me. I don’t think I realized quite how precious until tonight.”

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat and he forces himself to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. He cannot possibly mean what it sounds like he means.

“You see I love my books and I wish I could tell them that.”

Oh. Crowley swallows, feeling his eyes prick and his chest go tight. “I’m sure they know.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take care of them a bit better. So that they don’t forget.”

It’s a strange thing, knowing someone loves you. Perhaps it feels like a warm blanket or maybe the first sip of tea in the morning when you’ve slept too late. Crowley doesn’t know. He’s bad with words. But he does know he feels something like happy.

“I doubt they will. Hard thing to forget, you know,” Crowley manages to say with some modicum of his normal sarcasm.

Aziraphale is silent for a long time, hands still running through Crowley’s hair, and when he finally speaks it’s very quiet and very full of feeling. “Do you think you could find a way? To love my books?”

“Angel,” Crowley says, forcing himself to open his eyes again. Aziraphale is bright-eyed, almost tearful and that’s no good at all. “I’ve loved your books for a very long time.”

Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath and gives him a relieved, watery smile. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad to hear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> [posted on tumblr here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/188177475804/this-thing-we-do-summerofspock-good-omens)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Thing We Do - Comic Adaptation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497094) by [omanomagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omanomagon/pseuds/omanomagon), [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock)


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